


tattoo trouble to your knuckles

by molotovhappyhour



Series: The Force Shall Free Me [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Gen, antagonistic best friends, i mean they're like fifteen and stupid with superpowers effectively but, levi is a jedi who stress knits, passing references to stress knitting, they're fifteen and stupid ignore them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molotovhappyhour/pseuds/molotovhappyhour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two of them are always in trouble anyway. It's not like one more mishap will push them over the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tattoo trouble to your knuckles

It’s still something that’s impressive—the freshness of the mechanically scrubbed air in the speeder lanes of upper Coruscant, among the spacescrapers and the traffic as they weave between fellow speeders in the space lanes in a way that would be (and probably is), by all rights, illegal. And so when the speeder dives, horns blaring at them to _slow the fuck down,_ fuck, like _signal_ or something, Eren takes a deep breath, reaching into the teeming sea of _presence_ for the cargo speeder he’s looking for.

“Found it,” he says over the wind as they dive again, more speeders splitting like a waterway with angry curses. “Down a lane, forward. Toward the closest spaceport.”

“We,” Jean’s voice gets ripped backward, taken away from where the roof would be if they hadn’t appropriated such a stylish speeder model, “are going to be in _so_ much fucking trouble after all of this.” But he doesn’t turn them around, keeping his hands firmly on the yoke as they weave in and out of oncoming traffic.

“We’re always in trouble,” which isn’t something Jean can dispute, and so he doesn’t try. The edges of his mind find the terrified life inside the rectangle of the cargo speeder, now below them. The Vors feel as delicate as they look, their thin frames cramped together, hidden from sight. (But their fear clogs his sinuses, and curdles in his mouth.) His hands tighten on the sides of the speeder as he bends half over to check his landing place. “I’m going to jump.”

“You’re going to _what?_ ” The wind can’t snatch at this, though it tries, and Eren bunches his legs beneath him, moving to clasp his hands on the windscreen of the topless speeder. Jean’s braid is whipping behind him, bits of hair coming loose against his face. “ _What?_ ”

“I’m going to jump!” His boots press against the seat—he wonders if he’s going to have to pay for this. Wonders if that’s what Jedi do. “It’d be easier to do with two people—compensation and shit—but I’m sure I can make do.”

“Are you fucking _shitting_ me?” A pause, Jean’s mouth setting in a thin line. “You’re going to end up smeared on someone’s _windscreen_ , asshole.”

“On three.”

“ _Jaeger_.” Distress. It hums through the Force and needles at his temples.

“Three.” He vaults over the windscreen and steps off the front of the speeder, tunic rippling in the wind. He uses the Force to correct the shortish drop, hoping that an adventurous-and-bitter driver doesn’t sideline him just because it feels like it’s entitled.

The landing on the top of the cargo speeder is less than ideal, more _knees_ than boot. It’s not very Jedi—but he roots himself there with the weight of _power_ , sizzling from the center of his body, worming his way up the ultra-chrome surface of the cargo bed.

(The Vors are looking at him, this he can feel, whistling to each other in the darkness of the sealed truck.)

His fingers curl around the edge and he pulls himself above the cab of the speeder, reaching for his lightsaber, clipped to the belt of his trousers. The toes of his boots refuse to take purchase on the polished cargo-bed, but he swings the blue blade in a wide enough arc to slice through the green roof, sending the wedge of metal careening backward, more horns protesting this undue action in their usual commute.

The purple-white of Jean’s repulsorlifts glow above him when he drops feet-first into the cab, next to a surprised Rodian—though surprised is, perhaps, an understatement.

(And _this_ , he thinks with triumph, clipping his saber back to his belt, is exactly why the Jedi needed to be involved. This is a _Rodian_ , which means that there are probably Hutt connections here, which _means_ that this is a lot bigger than a trafficking system on Coruscant alone.

But what would Hutts want with _Vors?_ )

“Hi,” Eren says, bracing a boot on the dashboard of the speeder. “Might want to consider parking.” He doesn’t put the Force behind his words, hopes instead that the gaping hole to his right—giving a pretty stellar view of the Coruscanti afternoon, redirected sunlight glinting off the transparisteel windows of the spacescapers—will prove a little more persuasive.

Instead, the cargo speeder banks hard to the right, the Vors in the bed tumbling in the back while his fingers dig into the seat, trying to keep him from falling to his death.

(He considers that for a moment—in sharp clarity, maybe a potential future of his. A drop from here _would_ scatter him across someone’s windscreen, would bang him against a couple landing platforms, drop his body— _maybe_ —to the bottom of the city, unrecognisable as a person when he gets there.

But then he pulls himself back up.)

“Okay. Don’t park. See if I care.” He rests his boots on the dashboard and eyes the terrified Rodian, whose shoulders tense as if he’s considering tipping the cargo speeder back over—perhaps hoping this time will be different, that Eren will fall like he’s supposed to.

There’s something about the Rodian that changes—something about his plan that shifts gear—and the cargo speeder lurches upward, causing klaxons to blare in protest at the unsignaled lane change. Jean’s appropriated speeder veers in the rearview mirror and something dangerous flits in the Force before it’s smothered somewhere in Jean’s chest behind them.

Cargo speeders aren’t made for sharp turns, but the driver cares little-to-nothing about the craft’s specs, opting instead to pray that Eren pukes and tumbles out of the hole as he’d originally intended. Eren expects that he doesn’t really hope that the yoke is wrenched from his grip, guesses that he’s not entirely fond of having to fight for his piloting, and knows for a fact that this is going to get very ugly, very quickly.

(It’s something of an accepted fact at this point in his life—the Force is too loud, the currents too violent, the ebb and flow of life around him _too much_ for him to ever get the hang of piloting anything.

This fact doesn’t change his current position, and it doesn’t change the necessity of him taking control of the speeder.)

He yanks sharply on the yoke, veering the speeder to the right, and pops the buckle on the Rodian’s safety harness. Thin, green fingers cling to the yoke as the metal of the cargo speeder screams against a landing platform, rolling Galactic City over and over on its head, skidding to rest at the edge, rocking as the repulsorlifts sputter themselves to death.

Panic pulls at the lining of his throat as he reaches with the Force to keep a grip on the platform as the Rodian bails, changing the weight distribution inside the speeder.

(Sirens are coming from somewhere.

The CSF is going to be _pissed_.)

Something else crashes to the landing platform, sending trembles up the shell of speeder. Eren holds his breath to keep himself still, a stone in a sea of noise and _feeling_ and confusion—the Vors in the cargo hold reek of bitter terror, the people on the landing platform ooze the rubber-necked interest of accident survivors—

And the Force sings with Jean’s muffled hum, hidden behind a cloud of _something_ that he’s been working on since Grandmaster Smith lost his arm and got another one and lived to tell the tale. The cargo speeder protests being dragged flat onto the platform, leaving paint and shattered viewscreen in its wake.

He doesn’t move until Jean appears in at the driver’s-side door, facing up toward the sky of Coruscant, his face blocking the sunlight and air-traffic, now being redirected by the insistent sirens of the Coruscant Security Force. “You alive?” Jean asks him, even though he can _feel_ it, even as his hand reaches through the bent-in door to help Eren out.

“I think so. How are the passengers?”

“Haven’t let them out yet. Fucking _shit_ though, no wonder you don’t fly.”

“I _landed_.”

“You _crashed._ ” With his hands braced on the scarred metal of the cargo speeder, Eren pulls himself up and out of the door, dropping to the platform, breathing in the stress of the immediate area, wishing instead for something cold and simple and _quiet_ inside his head. He turns his head to where a set of CSF speeders sit, flashing red and blue lights in off-rhythm patterns. The appropriated speeder sits dented between them.

“ _Jackass_ — _you_ fucking crashed, too.”

“Trying to save _your_ sorry—oh.” Jean’s face goes slack.

(Eren can feel exactly why, knows that that steady brightness anywhere—and he chooses to step around the speeder and open the cargo hatch instead of facing it.)

Fifteen Vors crawl out toward the sunlight, holding their winged arms close to their bodies, whistling in shaking tones to one another, blinking against the glare. He can feel Jean beside him, can feel Levi and the Grandmaster behind them, knows without looking that Levi isn’t happy and that Grandmaster Smith’s eyebrows are bent in that manipulatively disappointed sort of way that could make a _Senator_ feel sorry for having their hand in the cookie jar.

They share a glance before they turn around, trying to ignore the whistled language behind them.

Erwin doesn’t speak at all, for a moment, keeping his hands tucked inside his sleeves. Eren and Jean both know that he’s leaving room for Levi to speak first—because _unhealthy_ emotions need to be worked through when there’s nothing to do with his hands, and Levi does it best with verbiage.

“I _told you_ ,” Levi says, his voice quiet enough to belie the feelings beneath it, “that this was _not_ a Jedi problem. I told you to _stay put_ and CSF would handle this.” His eyes—like storm clouds—flicker to Jean with distaste. “And _you_ should know better. _You_ are supposed to be subtle one.”

He can feel Levi's concern like firewasps, stinging at the inside of his skull. It makes him nauseous, swallowing all that terror on his own behalf. It breaks his heart.

Levi's eyes lock on his face when he next speaks. "You could've been _killed_."

(Eren tries to swallow against something that smarts deep in his gut. He chokes on it instead.)

“Master,” Jean speaks slowly, in a way that oozes _subtle_ disrespect as he ignores Levi's final declaration, “we made it so it _wasn’t_ a Jedi problem. We made it a Padawan problem instead.”

Something twitches across Erwin’s face while something darkens on Levi’s. “You carry the weapon of our Order and you wear the robes of a Jedi. Do _not_ do this again, do you understand me?”

“With all due respect,” Eren lies through his teeth, “it didn’t seem to us like CSF was anywhere near this cargo speeder, and it _did_ seem to us like we could handle this problem on our own. I mean—we _did_ save them. _All_ of them.”

“And where is the pilot?” Erwin asks, working his words past the tension now in Levi’s jaw. “Since you had it under control.”

“Got away.”

“So...?” An eyebrow goes up and guilt pushes up his throat. Or maybe he’s feeling Jean’s guilt. Maybe he’s feeling something else entirely.

“We _saved_ the people you didn’t prioritise—“

“ _No_ ,” Levi’s voice comes out a hiss, and Eren can see in his fingers where he wants something to do to relax. Shame bubbles back up in Eren's throat as Levi's terror bleeds into the Force anew. “No, you _disobeyed a direct order_ from your _Jedi Masters_ , is what you did, and you undermined the entire—“

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Eren says, and his voice goes lower, because if it doesn’t, it’ll scald his mouth, “but from my point of view, seems like the Jedi are in the Senate’s pocket, because that’s we _never_ get assigned recuse missions. _Depose this leader, talk with this politician, organise this resistance cell_.”

Levi’s nostrils flare and his eyes flicker to the Vors behind them.

Erwin rolls his shoulders loosely, and cocks his head. “You two might want to get back to the Temple before we have this conversation. CSF will need to be placated and I’ll need to talk to Captain Dawk about all of this.”

That’s the end of their scolding—for a moment, at the very least. The Jedi Masters turn to one another and murmur, walking away toward the flashing speeders.

It’s only when one of the Vors taps Eren on the shoulders that he feels any kind of safe to move.

“You saved us,” comes in whistled Basic, and the Vor fidgets with vir hands, blinking wide eyes. “You didn’t have to. And you got in trouble.” Ve holds out a thin claw for shaking—once, to Jean, and once to Eren, before folding vir hands back together. “We are very grateful.”

There are a lot of questions either of them could ask—follow up questions that would make this damage worth it, that would make this waste of CSF resources worth it. ( _What do the Hutts want with Vors? Where did they catch you from? Why use Coruscant as a hub?_ )

Neither Jean nor Eren asks any of these.

“Anytime,” is what they say, not quite in tandem, and watch as the Vors gather up together and whistle to themselves, casting nervous glances to the CSF officers that finally wander over to speak with them.

“We,” Jean says quietly, turning his head close to Eren’s ear, “are in so much trouble.”

“I’m always in trouble,” Eren tells him, which is so true on most days that he might as well get _trouble_ tattooed onto his forehead in every language in the galaxy.

A pause, and Jean cocks his head, his voice in the Force becoming the clearest it’s been since he’d been young and small and newly initiated. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think we did pretty good today. The Vors seemed happy enough.”

Jean’s fist comes out in a careful offering, a declaration of intent.

Eren meets Jean’s knuckles with his own and says without looking at him, “race you back to the Temple.”

“Dude,” Jean says, turning around and breaking into a run, propelling himself over the gap between one parking platform and the next with the Force, “you already lost.”

(If their Masters call after them, neither of them hear.

They’ll have a lecture, later, anyway.)


End file.
